It was a cool, quiet evening—one of those rare days when the city seemed to exhale. I boarded the bus home from work, grateful for the unusual calm. The vehicle was only half-full, a welcome contrast to the usual chaos of rush hour. The driver was sealed off in his little cubicle up front, and we passengers were scattered like leaves on a still pond. Among them was a man who immediately caught my eye—late 60s, wearing a crisp white cap that read ' Chosen One' in bold black letters. He was flipping through a newspaper with such frantic energy it looked like he was searching for something long lost—or perhaps arguing with the headlines themselves. Opposite him sat another older man, though you wouldn't know it from his clothes. He was dressed like a teenager—like someone clinging to relevance with both hands. Then, out of nowhere, the man in the cap spoke, loud and clear, as if addressing a courtroom rather than a quiet bus. 'Does time determine what's right or wrong...
THE NEW MARKET PLACE When about 30 of us got into the interview hall, an HR official walked to the front and became a sales man right before our eyes. He sold us the one thing many of us did not wish to buy. "We are all sales men; marketers in this world, else why do women apply makeup and men make money just to woo the other sex? We want someone to buy what we are directly or indirectly selling. Marketing is one of the best jobs in the world . Be proud of it! So my friends, we offer you the job of a loan officer. You will go out looking for clients who we can loan money..." Those still seated had sad looks on their faces . They probably had no fare to take them home. I spoke to one of them. He was coming all the way from Sango to Gbagada for a job of his nightmare. These were his last words: " Omo this na interview scam o. Na why I come spend my last card be this sha… God dey." We all wanted to be Graduate Trainees but oh well...We were being sold...